"I would give the world to possess your faith," she said, hesitatingly;
"but there's no use--no use--I'm too great a sinner."
There was no chance to reply, for she walked away as she spoke. In a
second she was talking to a customer in her usual business-like manner.
As Faith turned to look over her stock she heard some one speak.
There was a colored man at her counter holding a letter out toward her.
"Dis yere lettah fo' you, missy," he said, with a wide grin. "Dar ain't
no name on it, honey, but I know's yo' face. Yo' is num'er fo' eleben.
Reckin ain't no 'stake 'bout it!"
"I am Number 411, certainly," said Faith, politely, "but I can't imagine
who would write me a letter; still, if you are sure it's for me, I
suppose I must accept."
"Oh, it's fo' you all right," said the negro, decidedly, "fo' de capting
p'inted yo' out on de street las' ebenin'."
Faith took the letter and opened it hastily. As she glanced rapidly over
the writing she blushed as red as a poppy.
"Got a mash note?" asked Miss Jones with a careless glance at the
letter.
"Not exactly," stammered Faith, "but it is almost as unpleasant. It is
from a man whom Bob Hardy spoke to me about--a fellow who thinks because
I am poor that he can buy my soul with his superfluous money!"
CHAPTER XXVII.
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